


Man With No Name

by bennylucerne



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Blood, Gen, M/M, NSFW, Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:25:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1916175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bennylucerne/pseuds/bennylucerne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of the prompts/stories I've written for the mgs fandom!<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Fist Full of Dollars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Ocelot and his obsession with cowboys.  
> For Tanalilt on tumblr.  
> No warnings

He wasn’t really aware of where it had come from, just that one day he realised his personal belonging amounted to army blacks, dress, camo, PT, one or two Makarovs, Tokarevs, a handful of RGD-5s and a movie reel of A Fist Full of Dollars.

Just because he didn’t know where it came from doesn’t mean he hadn’t watched it 15+ times a lot. And well – Clint Eastwood’s the Man With No Name was good. He could do what he set out to and was one hell of a shot (logically he knew the angle wasn’t always right and the wound would be larger and -) sometimes he wondered if the desert was really so large and open.

The military barracks had always left something to be desired; rooming with other bastards who gave him hell for his age and the ‘prettiness’ of his face. The Man With No Name wouldn’t have put up with this shit. He was more likely to shoot the bastards and kill anyone who complained.

‘Must be nice,’ Adamska thought, ‘not having a “side” to report to. Just working for your own goals, leaving the corpses behind to be pecked clean by the vultures.’

Whenever he could steal the projector he would abscond to a disused room and watch the picture on a wall. When he could, he did research; who made the film, where was it filmed, how did cowboys operate, was The Wild West really like that.  
It wasn’t an obsession because that would imply Adamska was being irrational about it and he wasn’t. He was highly rational about how he kept it a secret.  
There weren’t many opportunities to see the other films he learnt about while he was stationed in the USSR and it wasn’t until he turned his back on that life that he was able to find a movie store in America that would get him everything he wanted to see.

-

Honestly, he knew exactly when things started to get out of hand. It was when the boots turned up, unscathed on the feet of an American corpse and he had thought ‘What a waste.’ He didn’t expect to see them again, but the next day they were sitting in the quartermaster’s supply room.  
He had no reason to want them, hell no use for them – if he wore them he’d be the laughing stock of the barracks and it’s not like they were coherent to military dress standards.  
So he simply watched as they remained in storage until one night, he worked out that no one would even notice or care if the boots went missing. He planned carefully and just … took them. Walked into storage and out with them in hand.  
Of course he hid them under his bed and waited for a moment of down time where he could escape to the back of the compound.  
The first time he tried on the cowboy boots, they felt right. Well, a size too big and the tough leather rim chafed his shins like sandpaper – but they made him feel proud, like he could take any shot or outgrow the confines of the base.  
The boots didn’t make it to the next base. He could only fit so much in his bag and the film reel would be harder to replace.

-

By the time he made Major, he’d already got a plan. The plan was – by all accounts, a simple one; attach spurs to his new combat boots and shoot anyone who complained.

This plan didn’t come into fruition until he was made the leader of the Ocelot Commando Squad. Then, if anyone spoke against him he didn’t need to shoot them because he could bring them up on disciplinary charges and not get into trouble.

The soft clink of his spurs always reminded him of the notion of total anonymity, tricks and deceitful nature of the characters. The people who did what it took to get the ending they wanted.

-

On the other hand, learning to ride a horse was an experience he was glad no one ever witnessed.


	2. If I Had a Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post MGS3 Ocelot drabble somehow inspired by Fever Ray’s If I Had A Heart.  
> Warnings for : spoilers, non-graphic dead bodies.

He was tired.

It had been a long day; the fighting, the chases, explosions, Shagohod, Volgin – hell the whole last week had just been… unlike anything he’d ever experienced before.

The swim back to the shore had been a test of his endurance and determination because his entire body hurt (from the brutal fight with Snake and hitting and bouncing on the water) and his mind was on other things and –

When he had reached the shore, he had stumbled across a field of white lilies.

He could have been there for seconds, maybe hours, staring at The Boss’ body.

It wasn’t grief that was spreading through his veins, but it was no longer the fire from the last showdown with Snake – no _John_.

The feeling, whatever it was, seeped from his veins into his muscles, organs and when it hit his heart his breath hitched as if he’d been submerged into subzero temperatures.

The he knew what it was. It was nothingness.

The Boss was no more – just a corpse to rot and feed the flowers.

Just a corpse like Volgin.

He almost wanted to sit down, rest against a tree and watch the sky because he was tired and The Boss was dead and Snake was gone with EVA.

A still-wet glove was pushed over his short-cropped hair before Adamska straightened the gloves, took a deep breath of cloyingly perfumed-bloody-gunpowder stained air and felt the mantle of Ocelot fill the nothingness inside.

Ocelot didn’t look back at the corpse as he walked away.

(But if he had, he would have seen a young Sorrow smiling and a young Joy and peace.)


	3. Death Takes All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ocelot bleeds out  
> Warnings: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. GRAPHIC BLOOD LOSS.  
> Thatkindoffangirl's fault.

In a fight like the one he was in, nothing mattered but the click-pull-bang of his revolvers and the careful count of three-two-one shots left before needing to reload. This was the purest form of living; where your life was on the line and every single thing you did, every breath you took either steadied your hand or jolted it and every blink either cost you a hit or miss and Ocelot revelled in it.  
Here was the time that you found out if you could gun down 15 men without pausing, if you could stare down barrels and knives and smile because you knew they would be dead and you alive.

This was what got his blood pumping and made him glad to be alive – fighting alongside Big Boss because it meant he was trusted enough (well, enough to not shoot Big Boss in the back) and that always sent a jolt of electricity through his mind and body because even Ocelot didn’t know if he should be trusted with that much power.

So it didn’t matter to him that there were more people behind them than in front because he would take them all down (wouldn’t let anyone touch Big Boss) and John would see that he was more than just ‘pretty good’.

Ocelot had spent his whole life fighting. Training in militaries and learning weapons, injuries, learning how to get what he needed no matter the cost or collateral. He had studied the many of the effects of blood-loss in his time as an… interrogator. He knew that what was happening was officially called ‘hypovolemic shock’ (unofficially called ‘oh shit that’s a lot of blood that’s meant to be inside me not out’), and that it was the worst level of blood-loss to be in. But it painted the most pretty picture on a body; blue lips (the sort normally found in hypothermic or drowned bodies), corpse-white skin and tachypnea - hyperventilating to go with the rapid heart rate as the heart tried desperately to pump blood that just wasn’t there … Epinephrine causing that burst of painpleasureyesgood but adrenaline forced the muscles to twitch and shake because the subconscious desire for the fight-or-flight reaction. Yet the body was too weak to move at this stage. At hypovolemic levels the person was less of a person and more of a breathing corpse.

Yes, Ocelot knew the signs of major blood-loss (>2000mL only 4000ml left oh god), which was why he knew that he was, unequivocally, fucked, because the bullet went through his thigh. Ocelot didn’t know if it had torn through his femoral artery, but if it had, then he had less than 4 minutes. He had maybe four minutes to stop the blood flow as much as possible because otherwise - otherwise

his heart would try to continue to pump blood, not understanding that each beat would just push more blood out and nothing would replace it but air and then he would be dead and gone because the blood he needed was pooling onto the floor all around him it was all over him everything he needed to survive was right here he just couldn’t get it in the right place

Ocelot hadn’t even realised that he had pulled his scarf off and used it as a make-shift tourniquet until he reached, which horrifically shaky hands, to his throat to pull it off and press it against the wound. His hand rested on his collar bone and he blinked slowly at the grey hued floor.  
Had the floor always been grey or was that just his vision? He placed his wet hand to it, but he couldn’t feel anything, couldn’t even feel the pressure he knew he was exerting on the floor and there must have been a reason but his mind was spinning or maybe that was just his vision or maybe the world was spinning but whatever it was it was making Adam feel sick, so god damn sick and he felt himself falling and

His eyes fluttered open and he was lying on his side. He couldn’t move – he could barely blink as he felt his breath hitching and shuddering out of him as his heart was thumping in his chest and something wet was lazily spilling over his legs. He wasn’t quite sure where he was – it certainly wasn’t his room because did he even have one? But it must have been a place to rest because he felt oddly distant and his eyes were so heavy in that way that only occurs when you’ve been up for an ungodly amount of time.  
So he figured it must be okay for him to rest because why else would he be lying down?  
There was a buzzing in his ears – louder than any alarm he’d ever heard, hell it was almost as loud as the Shagohod had been, but the mechanical beast hadn’t been inside his head and hadn’t made him feel so weightless and Adamska had known that he would make it out from Groznyj Grad, but so few people survived a severed femoral artery.

But as his eyelids fluttered and his vision tunnelled, the roar of blood in his ears quieted and lethargy stole through his brain. There were other people around him, sleeping (dead, unconscious, crying blood what did it matter) and Ocelot smiled at the blood he could see on the floor because it was just like the blood that had poured from John’s face when Ocelot’s gun had gone off and wasn’t that a warm thought to get you through the Russian winter – John bleeding because of him –

-

When Big Boss pulled the knife out of the man’s throat a few minutes after he’d heard the gun-shots stop, he expected Ocelot to come sauntering over, jeering about how John was ‘getting slow in his old age’. But there was no sign of the cocky brat; only the silence of the dead and a faint rasp of the dying.  
There was also the collapsed body of Adamska, pale as any of the other corpses under a truly admirable amount of blood – all his own of course.

John rarely froze – unable to act, but the sight of Ocelot lying, for all he knew dead, sent John right back to that damn flower field and The Boss lying in the same position and once again John had failed.

Then he noticed that there were differences; Ocelot was still breathing and she was dead and The Boss hadn’t had blood on her face and then Ocelot stopped breathing.

-

Ocelot woke up to pain. He didn’t know why there was burningfireacid someone was drilling into his leg they were tearing it open pouring nitric acid into his veins –

He wanted to cry out, to claw at his leg (if he still had a leg because honestly he thought amputation was the only answer to this pain) but the tube that was gagging him wasn’t allowing him to. He wanted to grab it – pull the damn thing out of his lungs because he could feel it in his tracheal airway – but when he tried to reach for it his hand didn’t even twitch.

Well that wasn’t strictly true. He was shivering uncontrollably with tiny minute tremors because he felt so damn cold, even though there was a scratchy wool blanket pulled up over him. It didn’t help the post-anaesthesia shivering that was juddering the tube and the blasted plastic was scratching at his throat and he wanted to cough but the plastic and the lethargy –

He could already feel the cracks on his lips from where the tube had torn the flesh while being inserted and his tongue was little better than a dried-out lump forced underneath the tubing connected to a face mask that seemed to be tied to his head.

Ocelot wanted to alert someone that he was awake so that they’d come and take the tube out so he could breathe because he was pretty sure his throat was going to spasm at any moment (he didn’t realise that his throat had been spasming and was simply too worn out to anymore), but he couldn’t make a noise or move and he might as well have been dead because this was just as bad and

Oh.

He had made the mistake of moving his leg and by god was that a bad idea. As the swirling blackness crept into his vision again, he thought that he was going to find John and slowly bleed him out because this was, somehow, undoubtedly, his fault.

-

Para-Medic refused to look at Big Boss. That was how he knew it was bad, not the darkness under her eyes that spoke of a harrowing attempt to seal the severed artery, or the manual CPR to keep his lungs full of oxygen and his heart beating to the right tempo. She wouldn’t look him in the eye and say “He’ll be fine.”  
She would just shrug and say placating “It’s still early. I don’t know how long he went without oxygen for… John maybe…” But she never finished what she thought because her mouth would turn down and her eyes would go bright and she would turn away.

When he pressed her, yelled and nearly grabbed her, she reacted. Her raised her chin, squared her shoulders and said “Whatever happens, don’t have regrets because you could have said something.” Then she went to the one place John had not yet followed her to; Ocelot’s bedside.

-

“For God’s sake John just go see him once!”  
“I’ll see him when he drags his sorry ass to my office.”

-

There was a female voice talking about something… he could heard “the Man With No Name” and wanted to join in because that was a beautiful film and no doubt the stupid medic didn’t appreciate it properly…

But he couldn’t even open his eyes and everything faded out too fast for him to notice.

-

When he opened his eyes again, he only felt pain. It wasn’t even localised to his leg, it was everywhere, as if acid had replaced his blood and poison was in his lungs. He opened his mouth to scream, to get it out, to do something, but his chest just convulsed like there was no air in the room. His face was wet – tears and sweat mixing and blinding him and Ocelot wanted to laugh.

Wanted to laugh until he was crying so hard he couldn’t breathe because this was nothing compared to what John had gone through and clearly Adamska needed to work on his pain tolerance because how would he be useful to John like this–

And oh, almost as if a switch had been hit, everything went quiet. The pain faded away and his eyes were closed but not heavy anymore. The stillness brought a peace he wasn’t sure he had ever felt before and clearly whatever drugs Para-Medic had given him were glorious because he felt so good and happy.

When he opened his eyes to smile at the medic (because hell, she’d been good to him and it was nice of her to use the good drugs), he saw that everyone in the room was crying (the fact that there were only three people seemed irrelevant because two couldn’t be there no it wasn’t possible).

Para-Medic was sitting by his side; her face trying to remain impassive, even as tears blinded her and her body was wracked with terrible shuddering breaths. Her hands were balled into fists inches away from his own hand and she very carefully leaned down to rest her head on her hands and cry as quietly as she could manage.

The Boss stood side by side with a man he didn’t recognise (though he felt familiar for some reason) and technically she wasn’t crying, but her eyes looked a little wet despite the smile she had. The man she was holding hands with was crying – one eye tears and the other blood and well that wasn’t a hallucination Ocelot had expected.

Then, softly but clearly, the crying man said “It’s okay. Just close your eyes and e-everythi… everything will be fine, son.” His voice hitched and broke and Ocelot didn’t understand but felt his eyes close anyway because what was the point if John wasn’t here anyway.

-

Big Boss didn’t look up when the door to his office was opened. He didn’t even look up when the footsteps stopped in front of his desk. The file was place on top of the document he had been reading, but by the time he looked up, Para-Medic had already turned back to leave the room.

“My report. On Oce… On Adam.” Her voice was ever so soft and she sounded more defeated the he had ever heard. As she was about to close the door, she turned back and he could see her eyes were red and puffy. “For his sake… I hope you said thank you.”

[Medical Report | Attending Physician: Dr. Clark | Patient: Adamska “Ocelot” | DECEASED]


	4. Kisses like a Drug

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: sex  
> Yeah sex. I don't even know what I'm doing with my life anymore I hope you're all happy.

**Kisses Like a Drug**

Adamska thought that something like this should have been ... more. That it should have stolen his mind and drowned the breath from his lungs and lit his brain with a fever. That kissing the Big Boss should have been more than the same as kissing anyone else. It wasn’t something they had done. They had had sex before sure, and maybe even bitten each other’s lips, but never taken the time to explore and just ... kiss. 

But when his eyes fluttered open to look (to make sure this was real; that it was really him), Adamska saw. He saw John and the weight on his chest lifted and crushed his hear. There was a man in front of him and out of all of the names, the only one Adamska could think of was _John_. Warmth curled through him at their closeness; John had both hands on his shoulders as if to hold him in place (not that Adamska wanted to go anywhere, not now, not ever) and with their mouths pressed together they could share breath so easily; all Adamska would have to do was open his mouth - 

Oh ... there was the feeling of the world falling away. John was just a man – mortal, flawed (oh so flawed), but everything Adamska had wanted. He didn’t care where he was or who could see or anything other than the feeling of John’s tongue in his mouth and the scratch of John’s beard against his lips. Adamska could feel himself smiling and he wanted to stop before John pulled away (to mock or question or - ) and instead sucked on his tongue with a roll of his own that mimicked what he would do if he was on his knees with something else in his mouth. 

The grip on his shoulders turned painful and John moaned – a low exhale of a noise that shot lightening through Adamska’s body because he’d seen John whether injuries with less noise but he was the one drawing them from John. Adamska swallowed when they parted just enough for their lips to touch and (though he’d forever deny it) he tilted his head up once – twice, nudging their lips together in chaste kisses.

His hands were on John’s chest and he curled his fingers into the fabric of the shirt, before using it as leverage to push away a small amount. After swallowing again to clear his throat, Adamska muttered “We should – uh –” He looked at the bed.

The quiet rumble of laughter made him look back and the fondness in John’s smile felt like a more effective drug-high than anything in the world. It was almost odd, how reluctant he was to leave his position pressed up against John. Instead of fighting it, he simply leaned back in and kissed him again, his tongue against John’s lips then licking into his mouth. 

Adamska wanted – he wanted so much – everything, anything John would give. He wanted more than sex because he could get that anywhere (though never like with John), but he wanted to closeness to John. To see what others didn’t. To see the marks on his skin to match the marks John left on his soul when they first met. As focused on the feel of John’s mouth as he had been, he had missed the fact that one of John’s hands had moved from his shoulder to press against the back of his head, to angle it exactly as John wanted.

It felt like possession and where normally Adamska would have been rebelling against it, but increasingly it seemed that John just took what-ever he wanted now and Adamska didn’t mind giving him this (for now).

-

Adamska was unsurprised to find himself underneath John when they made it to the bed. He had struggled against John’s hold on his wrists that were pinned by his head, but John’s hold was absolute and Adamska had to trust that he wouldn’t do any lasting damage. He couldn’t even find the breath to say John’s name, what with the man trailing bites and burning kisses across Adamska’s neck and upper chest. He could only gasp and let hitching hums of pleasure out (part of him wanted to stay quiet, the other said ‘why bother, he likes to hear you’).

Still, Adamska arched up, abdominal muscles working to lift his torso up, despite the stress on his wrists. A quick but vicious nip to his extended throat had his hips jerk and then they both moaned when their cocks pressed against each other.

Adamska screwed his hands into fists, but when his nails bit into his palms, something clicked in his brain and he reached up until he could sink his nails into John’s wrists instead. Adamska let his mouth fall open to gasp in more air but John (almost cruelly) sealed his mouth over Adamska’s and his lungs were burning and he wanted to swallow because he feared the mess of saliva would escape from his lips, but John was pressing down on him and Adamska couldn’t move –

When they parted enough for John to draw in a breath, Adamska could only mouth John’s name against his jaw and pant against his cheek. It was not the soft rumbling laughter that cleared Adamska’s mind though, but the damn smug smirk he felt against his neck. “John let go” It was still said in a quick exhalation, but the words were clear and Adamska could stare up at John and (mostly) ignore the blush that stained his face. As if the whole encounter wasn’t odd enough, John let go. Propped himself up on one hand and tilted Adamska’s head with a hand on his chin and then they were kissing again but Adamska could grip John’s shoulder and slid the other hand between their bodies to grasp both of their slick cocks.

Something felt different about that time. It wasn’t that they were being any less gentle with each other; bites and bruises, scratches and welts were all laid on each other’s bodies. It was the warm smiles and affectionate looks, quiet laughter and reverence of each other that made it so odd. Adamska thought again that it was John, actually him and he had to close his eyes and throw his head back because his eyes were burning and his breath was hitching again. John’s large and calloused hand slid up his ribs and rested on the side of his pectorals, thumb catching on Adamska’s nipple and Adamska took a deep breath when he realised John was feeling his heart beat (a mile a minute the smug asshole).

And this was why they didn’t do it. Couldn’t, not really. Adamska didn’t know if he could cope – not with John being so – (tender).

So he let go. Slid his hand off their cocks and around John’s hip to pull him closer and breathed wetly into John’s neck, “In-inside, пожалста –”. He never figured out if it was him asking (not begging) or his occasional slip into Russian, but it never failed to get John reaching for the lube.

“Nnngh –” Adamska bit at the skin front of him as John pushed a slick finger inside without warning and without pause. Adamska choked another moan when John added a second finger fast enough to make him ache in the most perfect way. The desire to ask for _moreanythingeverything **пожалста** _ was too strong so Adamska bit his lip and knew it would bleed and wanted the pain and the blood – But John licked the bitten lip and gently took Adamska’s mouth in a kiss and it wasn’t fair that he kept changing the rules like that –

The blunt head of John’s cock touched his balls and suddenly the fingers were gone and the pressure was too much not enough and the cry was swallowed by John’s grunt of appreciation as he slid into Adamska.

_End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo is now a good time to mention I'm an asexual homoromatic who has no experience past kissing?  
> Seriously I couldn't write some of this down without blushing like woah.


	5. Cactus are not your friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is 100% Minz's fault; Ocelot got a leg injury and Big Boss carries him  
> Warnings: Blood, guns, knee injuries.  
> [Edit: BIg thanks to n. who left a comment correcting my (truthfully terrible) Russian and poor SKS knowledge, so hopefully those bits should read better!]

The wetness creeping down his leg alerted Ocelot to the fact that something was wrong. When the blood started to visibly seep through his trouser leg, Ocelot couldn't honestly understand how he'd managed to injure himself.  
The outer-decks of Motherbase weren't the most comfortable place to practise with weapons, but Ocelot preferred to do his own practise out of the prying eyes of the new recruits. That was why he was so far out from the normal weapons-area and as close to a deserted section as possible.

He knew he hadn't shot himself in the knee (the logistics of managing to shoot your own knee with an SKS were just impossible), so he just watched the blood dampen the material with some confusion and annoyance. Then he noticed the thin long needles littering his legs and oh. The cactus he'd shot had exploded, pot and all. He hadn't thought anything of it; the plant had been one of the many things John had brought back to Motherbase for reasons unknown (Ocelot liked to call John a 'crazy American' every time he came back with something additional to the target).

Ocelot had taken to using them as target practise to see if he could manage things like shooting just the needles off, or taking just one arm off. His last shot had missed its intended target and instead hit the clay-earth wear pot and the thing had shattered like a frag-grenade.  
Somehow, the stupid plant and shards of pot had embedded themselves in his leg and he hadn't noticed until blood started to drip to the floor.

"Да вы издеваетесь (are you kidding me)?" Ocelot didn't often publically use Russian unless actually in Russia, but when alone he found that he often would slide back into Russian expletives and gun maintenance.  
The sudden call of "Спокойно (calm down)," surprised him enough that the SKS twitched in his grip, but Ocelot didn't have a hair-trigger thankfully.  
John watched with mild amusement as Ocelot laid the gun down, before dropping to sit on the cold metal floor.  
"У тебя в ноге иголки, откуда (you have needles in your leg, what was that?)" The amusement was much stronger then and Ocelot groaned before he hid his face behind a hand.

"Cactus. John -"  
But it was too late; John had dropped to crouch next to him and already started rolling up the trouser leg, smearing blood and extracting a hiss as it pulled the stray needles from his flesh.

"You missed your knee, but looks like shrapnel tore the skin on your shin. You'll be fine."  
"I knew that. Go away John; I'll take care of it later."  
The only warning Ocelot got was a raised eyebrow before he found himself being hefted up by John in a princess carry. The squawk of surprise was something Ocelot would forever deny, but the full red flush of his face was glaringly obvious.

He clapped both hands to his face and Ocelot mumbled "Please John…. Treat me like a horse."  
"What?" The incredibility in John's tone was not often heard, and as such went a long way to making Ocelot feel better.  
"Cowboys shoot their horses when the break their legs…. They don’t carry them around bridal style. It's our only option."  
The silence was weighted in such a way that Ocelot /knew/ he was going to hate the next words out of John's mouth.  
"You're the horse huh? Normally you ride me."

At Motherbase, it didn't matter what language you spoke; everyone could understand the frustrated, agonized yell of rage as Ocelot's.


	6. The Ending of Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> http://shalafluffska.tumblr.com/post/92336980121/fuck-adam-thought-john-is-here-this-means-i
> 
> Yup.
> 
> [Warnings: mentions of death, hella gay Big Boss/Ocelot]

**The Ending of Dreams**

"You're pretty good" Ocelot knew he wasn't looking at John; that it was his clone (or son), but the vivid memories of John's voice, saying those words to him all those years go... Well it was a memory Adamska had always treasured. It was fitting they would be his last words. He took one last rasping breath and - painfireohgodnohurtshelp -

\- 

Ocelot didn’t want to open his eyes; there were bright lights piercing his eyelid. He couldn't remember the last time he woke up in such luxury; something soft and comfortable, his head supported - almost cradled and an overall sense of calm. There was no pain in his waking moments and that was when Ocelot decided he was dead. His life had been riddled with various pain (not always physical), but in the later years of his life, since the loss of his arm really, every day was a test of endurance. There had been times, when the pain was so intense, the road ahead so long and lonely, that Adamska had lost sight of why he was even bothering.

So to be free, finally free, he let his muscles relax and felt like a young man again. 

"Adam?"

Oh wasn't that perfect? He died with John's voice being the last thing he heard and he got to hear it again here? That was a grace he thought he was too tainted to receive. He didn't want to open his eyes because part of him started to whisper that he wasn't good enough for Heaven and opening his eyes would ruin the dream and why would John want to see him? 

The creeping thoughts brought back the emotions and pain he'd been holding for the last few decades and his breath hitched as his eyes began to water against his will. There was a movement to his side and he felt someone lean closer, 'John? No... Please...' he swallowed around a sob 'Don't let John see me like... this. Not... who I became.' A large, calloused hand touched his cheek ever so lightly and Adam shook with the force of his emotions. The tears that spilt onto his cheeks were wiped away with such gentleness that Adam couldn't fathom.

" 'hn..." He tried to say John's name because if a touch couldn't burst this dream then speech wouldn't either, but the fingers that had been on his cheek drifted enough for Adam to realise there was a face-mask covering his mouth.

And Adam could only cry more at the thought of them both still being alive.

When he felt the surprisingly soft bearded lips being brushed against his still damp cheeks and John murmured against his skin, "Shh. Don't try to speak." A light kiss; honestly more of a touch, but at the noise it produced from Adam’s throat, John pressed his lips against Adam’s cheek harder. “It’s been a while, don’t speak; not yet.” Adam could only twitch his head in a nod and try to lean closer to John’s warmth and touch.

“I am here. I’ll stay.” John whispered it as he trailed light and soothing kisses across Adam’s face. Adam was tired, so tired, and the warmth and comfort of John’s face was intoxicating. Before Adam slipped back into sleep, he felt John take his hand, and Adam knew that they would both be okay. John didn’t let go easily.

[End]


	7. The Ending of Graveyards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Warnings: major character death, hella gay old men]

The Ending of Graveyards

"You're pretty good" Ocelot knew he wasn't looking at John; that it was his clone (or son), but the vivid memories of John’s voice, saying those words to him all those years go... Well it was a memory Adamska had always treasured. It was fitting they would be his last words. He took one last rasping breath and - painfireohgodnoithurtshelppleaseSnakeBossJohn –

*

John hadn’t been out of his coma for long, but he’d already found those who had remained loyal to the cause and drafted in as much fresh blood as he could trust. That was why he’d been able to recover Adamska. It had been easy; the celebrating people had written Ocelot off as dead and people never watched dead bodies close enough.

Adamska was still alive, though just barely. The CQC wounds were severe; they could have killed a young man, so John knew that Adamska’s survival was only down to his stubborn attitude. The doctor had decided that the best thing would be for Adam to be put on life support systems to give him a better chance to allow his wounds to heal in peace.

John watched over Adam. Every day he would sit in Adam’s room and read reports for a few hours before retiring to bed.

The doctor often tried to bring up the topic that Adam was on life-support to the point where the machines breathed for him, fed him, did everything but kept his heart beating. Mentioning that “he won’t wake up,” was only ever met with John saying; “He will. He’s survived worse.”

Time passed; days into weeks and John still waited. He observed the doctor do his final checks for the evening, but something changed that night.; When doctor was opening Adam’s eyes to put eye-drops in to keep them moist and checking for reactions did John realise that those weren’t Adam’s eyes. Adam had always had fire in his eyes and the glint that said “I might look like a kindly old man but I will shoot you in the back with a smile on my face”.  
These were blank, blood-shot eyes that stared up from the face held nothing of the man John respected, trusted, cared about so much.  
Almost as if the doctor sensed John’s revelation, he started, “Maybe you should...”

“Out.” The venom in John’s voice sent the doctor fleeing. John rested his elbows on the bed, clasped his hands and rested his forehead on them. “Adam wake up. Just wake up. You can’t leave me too, Paz, our Diamond Dogs, Kaz, even Eva. Not you; don’t make me lose you too.”

Adam didn't reply and John stayed like that for the whole night.

*

When Adam opened his eyes, John’s heart started to beat again. Tears welled up in his eye and he grabbed Adam’s hand. There was a noise in Adam’s throat; "'hn...", a moan or a word John didn’t know, but John hushed him softly, “Don’t try to speak. I’m here. I’ll stay.”

At first, he thought that Adam had done as he said and was just being quiet, but then John realised Adam wasn’t moving, breathing and the noise he could hear was the flat-line of the heart monitor.

John refused to let anyone help with preparing Adam for his funeral. He carefully cleaned Adam’s body, re-dressed him in John’s own clothes, but with Adam’s signature red gloves and scarf.  
There was no one else waiting by the pyre John had built on his own. He carried Adam, cradled him in his arms, before he placed him to rest. He did not look away for one second as he watched his oldest comrade burn.

Finally John only had two people left in the entire world to make peace with, before he could finally rejoin with his friends and comrades.

[End]


	8. The Ending to be Forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Warnings]: Major character death, sort-of-dementia, hella gay old men
> 
> Still Minz's fault. 3/4 endings done!

**The Ending to be Forgotten**

When Adam had been recovering, he occasionally woke up when the morphine ran out and John could hear the hitched groans that spoke of immense pain. John hated those moments of Adam’s hazy consciousness because sometimes Adam would mutter about how it was a dream – John wasn’t real – was dead, gone. Or the times when Adam would look at John with no recognition but would try to salute as if John was his commanding officer.

The doctor first said it was just the fever causing the confusion, then the fever had cleared it was the stress of healing. John stopped listening after the doctor blamed mental trauma and instead waited for Adam to wake up.

It was a long and arduous time before Adamska was deemed “healthy” by the doctor. John had thought that on this day he’d smoke a cigar and share a glass of terrible Russian vodka with Adam to celebrate.

But as he leant against the wall and observed Adam, he found no pleasure in the cigar. Adam sat upright in the chair unaided, but his shoulders were slumped forward and his back rounded. The doctor said Adam was awake but simply... wasn’t responding. His body functioned and had recovered, but his mind was gone.

In an exhale of smoke John muttered, “This payment for makin’ you wait those years? Your turn to sleep for a while?”

Adam just stared, eyes unfocused at the wall in front of him.

-

Most days John would just lean against the wall by the door, but on the days where John could feel the exhaustion in his bones and the dead screamed in his memories, he needed something to know Adam hadn’t left him.  
Adam used to say ‘You can’t get rid of me that easy. Anywhere I would’ve followed you’ and John, in his odd moment, would think that Adam damn well did. Adam would never leave him because he couldn’t. On the days where he just rested his head on Adam’s warm knees (though slowly becoming thinner as his muscles wasted away), sometimes he thought about how Adam always wanted to one-up John. Took up revolvers, grew his hair and did everything John asked in the most obtuse way possible. But John never thought Adam would win this way; going where even John couldn’t follow.

-

When Adam blinked and actually looked down at John, John knew that it was a dream. That he’d fallen asleep to the soft peace of Adam’s breathing, resting in a chair next to him, their shoulders brushing.  
This was a nice dream; where John would smirk at Adam as if nothing had happened - as if they were simply two people waking up together and Adam would smile back - a twitch of half his lips that staid in place.  
Hell John was too old to pretend that it didn’t lift his heart because he had been wishing for this to happen for so long.  
Adam’s hand trailed lightly down his face, but when Adam opened his mouth speak John woke up.

He’d had that dream a hundred times over and he realised he wasn’t just crying. Suddenly John felt like he had no more tears left to shed because what was the point? Crying wouldn’t do anything, as there was just a body in front of him and it didn’t matter if that body breathed or not.  


The doctor came running at the sound of a single revolver shot. It didn’t matter; Adam had died the moment when he had looked John square in the eye and asked “Who ... are you?”

[End]


	9. The Ending of Psychosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter of "The Ending" collection.
> 
> [Warnings]: Really odd. Mentions of ghosts, fire, death, blood, acid, pain.  
> Minz's fault.  
> 4/4   
> No words left from me - I wrote it in a fever dream.

**The Ending of Psychosis**

There must have been fire in his blood. Or would fire be less painful? Was acid running through his veins melting everything into a mess of agony?

Someone had dripped liquid nitrogen onto his face, only for what felt like a scalpel to wipe away the moisture (something in his mind whispered no no, you’re crying. When was the last time you cried?).

There was someone was with him then, for he didn’t even know if he still had arms (hadn’t one been misplaced), let alone the ability to move them. He wanted to open his eyes, see, but already blood had seeped through his eyelids and everything was stained red, red, fire and blood there wouldn’t be anything left just ashes and no one to hold them...

There might have been words. Certainly there was noise everywhere around him, but if they formed words they were lost; meant to him.  
Water flushed through his veins, dousing the fire, must be anti-venom alkali but it brought sweet blinding relief and darkness.

*

Blinding light brought him back from the peace he had found. He lashed out; nothing good would have thrust him into such pain that was tearing through his body. There was flesh and bone under his hands and the only thought in the swirling maelstrom of his mind was ‘Break’. The invading figure above him fell, a marionette with its strings cut, spine broken, no life in that puppet.

Smoke. There was smoke (clearly his blood was fire because where there was smoke... or so the saying went). Smoke that didn’t smell of the burning dead no diamonds found there just tar in the throat and ash in the wind.

A name. Old Testament Genesis 1 – 5. A name. Not his, not anymore (maybe never no parents to raise him who was he just him just blood).

“Ocelot.”

Ocelot. Ocelot (that’s Commander Ocelot to you, Commander, Revolver, Liquid – no).

New Testament, John. 1, 2, 3. John. No more John than Adam, no more Naked than Commander, Liquid than Big Boss.

Just an Ocelot and a Snake.

Liquid nitrogen on his face again because ghosts were still haunting him even in death. Fire, ash and water, just a burning blackened corpse. The dead were never quiet.

*

“... cefuroxime and metronidazole ... together ... psychosis ...”

Words, disjointed and meaningless but to those who knew the words. He knew the words. Knew the meanings of the words but there was a disconnect in his brain. Words continued around him giving meaning, but not for him.

“... broad-spectrum antibiotic and ... infections ...we could ... comma...”

There was a flick of a lighter; even the dead had needs.

Fireacidpain spiked through his head and arms (if they were still there he was used to ghost pains now) there was a hand over his eyes there must have been because the blood had been wiped from his sight and there was just the darkness of unconsciousness but the pain of living and the pressure from a hand he wanted so badly to be real.

*

The voice of the ghost that haunted him, commanded him.

Wake up. Stay. Don’t. Don’t leave. Wake up. Stop it. I’m here.

The ghost of a man who wasn’t gentle by actions, but a voice of tears and formerly unspoken words.

He would follow the ghost to Hell; through the wars, fire, blood death and killing. Nothing would stop him from following. He had followed, helped, protected always always always had his back always loyal to nothing but the mansnakesoliderbigbossmercenaryghostjohn.

Loyalty kept every single word in his mind. Kept every word and meaning true. He would follow the words, live by them they were the only thing keeping him alive ‘don’t die’ said carelessly but it wasn’t his liquid nitrogen that fell with the words it must have been the poison he had long since fallen to.

*

Pain left him. There was feeling still, but not of pain or painkillers. Just existence and a clouded sense of the word.

The ghost still commanded him. Told him to get up.

He did.

The ghost told him he was still healing.

He was.

The ghost put a hand on his shoulder and the poison couldn’t spread into his blood because it had already replaced it a long time ago.

He followed. Nothing would hurt the ghost again. Nothing would get close enough to hurt the ghost because he had failed him enough.  
Never again and there was never too much flesh, blood, bones in front of him to stop him.

Protect Snakebigbossvenompunishedjohnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohn.

Not alive, not dead. Living for a ghost who was more alive than the living. Psychosis in the blood.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr as bennylucerne!  
> Also, I'm always open for new prompts and I'm fine writing anything and most pairings!


End file.
